he called?”
No tissue now, she wiped her face with the back of her hand. “No. They wouldn’t tell me what happened. They wouldn’t tell me anything. So I didn’t tell them.”
“Mrs. Hanover, your husband murdered someone.” She took a deep breath. “No. He didn’t.”
The music changed again. Sam Cooke to Van Morrison, “Into the Mystic.”
“My husband didn’t kill anyone.”
“Mrs. Hanover—Jen—I took pictures of him.”
“You have him on camera? Actually murdering someone?”
“I have him with the body.”
“You didn’t see him kill anyone?”
“No.”
Jen nodded. “I don’t believe Rex could ever kill anyone.”
“You should have told the police he called. They need to find him. Did he say where he was going?”
“No.”
“You should have told them.”
“I don’t want the police to find him.” I downed the last of my scotch.
“I want you to find him,” she said. “Mrs. Hanover. Please.”
“Find him, Mr. Donne. Bring him home to me. Once you find him, we’ll both see that he’s not a murderer. This has to be a misunderstanding. I can believe he cheated on me. I can understand that. But my husband is not a murderer.”
I didn’t say anything.
Sitting across from me, Jen leaned forward. Took my right hand in both of hers.
“Will you help me?”
I took air in through my nose. The smell—again I was back in my childhood home, my mother crying on the couch. My father had disappeared. We never heard from him again. I remembered how helpless I felt, an eight-year-old boy who could only hug his mother. A helpless eight-year-old.
“I’ll help you find your husband,” I said.
Jen Hanover smiled, stood up, and gave me a hug. I patted her shoulder, and felt the weight of the past day get a little heavier on my shoulders.
The sun was barely coloring the sky, and the sound of traffic was still light. It wasn’t even six. That meant the man he was looking for was still around. He always was this time of morning.
Jesus Sanchez made his way around the corner and froze. Bill Martin saw and nodded at him. Sanchez paled.
“Yo, what the fuck you doin’ here, man? Didn’t think you were into this shit anymore.”
Martin extended his hand; Sanchez ignored it. “I said, what the fuck are you doin’ here?”
“Need to ask you a few questions.”
“Yo, you ain’t a narc anymore.”
“I need to know who the big guy is these days,” Martin said. “Fuck if it ain’t me.”
Martin laughed. “You’ve never been a big seller. You never will be. Answer my question.”
Being out here felt great. You didn’t get this working small-time robberies in New Brunswick. Martin loved moments like this, just fucking with a witness or informant until you got what you wanted. Working petty shit stolen from a frat house was boring. This was great.
“Shit, man. You don’t gotta be like that. Michael Burgess, yo. Check in on him.”
“Never heard of him.” Martin dropped his cigarette on the ground.
“Yeah, you been away awhile,” Jesus said. “You still talk to your boy? You know, Jackson.”
“Who’s Michael Burgess?” Martin fumbled for another cigarette. “Man, that guy, he didn’t give you up, did he? But yeah, you still holdin’ a grudge like he fucked you.”
Maybe working this case wasn’t exactly as Martin had hoped. “Tell me about Burgess.”
“Man, you ever tell him about what happened? What you did?”
Memories rushed back to Martin, moments he’d long ago buried.
“No,” Martin said. “I never told him.”
“What you smiling for? You know I ain’t gonna tell you shit. I don’t have to.”
“I can find out about Burgess without you.” He inhaled some smoke. “You just gave me an idea. See ya around, Jesus.”
“Man, what are you talkin’ about?”
“You still see Donne?”
“Nah. Every once in a while walking up and down this block. But we don’t talk no more.”
“You decide to get friendly, don’t tell him you saw me.”
“Man, fuck you.”
Martin turned and walked back to the police station.
The ringing phone was like a jolt of electricity through my body. I snapped out of bed, still in a sleepy daze, and knocked the alarm clock off my nightstand. The ringing kept up and I reached for the phone.
The clock, which landed faceup, said it was ten. I’d only gotten to bed around seven-fifteen. Jen had given me a list of Rex’s friends, their phone numbers and addresses, and then let me go. I spent the next hour and a half sitting on 287 in morning rush-hour traffic, listening to bad talk radio and fighting to keep my eyes open. I stumbled into my apartment, stripped to my boxers, and passed out on the bed. I hadn’t even had time to dream when the phone started ringing.
“Hello,” I mumbled into the receiver, rolling onto my back. “This is Ellen Schwartz, admissions office at Rutgers University.”
“Yes? How can I help you?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Donne. Did I wake you?”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. I could hear some disapproval in her voice, so I added, “I worked the night shift last night.”
“I’m sorry to disturb you.”
“Not a problem.”
I tried not to yawn into the receiver.
“Mr. Donne, we’re calling to schedule your entrance exam. You’re a late admit, so we’re afraid the letter wouldn’t
